Ultimate Prizes (47 page)

“But how can the Modernists possibly know for certain what’s a fable, what’s a metaphor and what’s scientific ignorance? Personally I think the whole Modernist attitude shows the most revolting spiritual arrogance—this worship of science is nothing but a perverted form of idolatry! Science doesn’t know all the answers! How can it? And if one believes in an utterly transcendent God—”

“Ah well,” I said, having long since forgotten that I was supposed to be an archdeacon on the warpath, “if you make the mistake of seeing God as utterly transcendent, a remote force which shoots off the occasional impossibility whenever it chooses to do so, then of course you’ll wind up by deciding He’s above the laws of science and you’ll be seeing miracles everywhere. But the Modernists prefer to think of God as immanent in the world, working through the laws of science and nature. They believe that if only one can dispose of this archaic and unhelpful model of the transcendent God, one can form a theology which is far more pertinent to the mid-twentieth century.”

“What utter rubbish! If we’ve got to be alive in the middle of this abominable century, the last thing we need is an immanent God who’s wallowing around in this disgusting pig-sty with us—we want a God up above the mess who can lean down and haul us out of it! It’s
your
model of God which is unhelpful and archaic!”

“But it seems to me that people who harp on a transcendent God always end up by undervaluing the importance of Christ. If one keeps in mind that the Incarnation symbolises God’s immanence among humanity—”

“Oh, I’ve no patience with this cosy, benign God whom you Liberals dress up in Christ’s clothes and reduce to your own mundane human level! God’s no soft-hearted Liberal! He’s harsh, firm—even brutal if necessary—”

“But if God is love—”

“Sometimes love requires harshness and firmness—and yes, even brutality too. What use is a parent who doesn’t care enough to discipline a child who goes wrong? Of course the Modernists say no one ever goes wrong, they deny the existence of sin, but in my opinion—”

“They don’t deny the existence of sin, Mellors! They simply say we should consider wrong-doing in the light of modern psychology and sociology—”

“They can consider evil in whatever light they please, but they’ll never alter the basic fact that we’re all sinners—and we’re all under judgement! We all need to be redeemed, and contrary to what you Modernists think, redemption isn’t to be had by sidling up to God with a winsome smile and lisping: ‘Excuse me, Lord, I think I’ll repent now—can I have my ration of sweetness and light, please?’ The road to redemption is decked in blood, sweat and tears, not in moonlight, red roses and a bunch of angels twanging harps!”

“My dear Mellors,” I said, “why aren’t you preaching this stuff in the pulpit instead of flagellating your congregation with pseudo-Modernist claptrap? There’s nothing wrong with a fashionable neo-orthodoxy!”

Mellors said flatly: “I was bored.” Then he said: “My own struggle for redemption’s been too difficult. One day I woke up and found I’d run out of strength.” And finally he whispered: “I’ve ruined myself. I had such high hopes and now they’re all dead. I’ve no hope left any more.”

“You say that because you’re standing in your wasteland, but—”

“What do
you
know about my wasteland?” shouted Mellors in a paroxysm of rage and despair. “What do
you
know about grinding poverty and drinking too much and feeling utterly cut off from God?”

“More than you think.” I stood up abruptly. “I’ll talk to the Bishop and try to ease this situation as soon as possible.”

“You mean you’ll recommend that I should be kicked out of the Church!” He was trying to sustain his anger but his voice broke. Taking off his spectacles he began to polish them furiously with a filthy handkerchief.

I sat down again. “Mellors,” I said, “you completely misunderstand the nature of my mission. My task is to enter your wasteland and work out how you can best be cut down from your cross, not to crucify you all over again.”

There was a silence, and when I realised he was incapable of replying I added: “My first recommendation to the Bishop will be that you should have a holiday. You’ve been worn out by all your unhappiness. Then I shall recommend that you have regular talks with a sympathetic older clergyman who’s good at sorting out clerical problems. And finally I shall recommend that after you’ve had sufficient rest and help, you should resume your work—though whether here or elsewhere in the diocese is a question which only the Bishop can decide.”

His pathetic attempt to maintain a stiff upper lip failed. I sighed, reminded of the more harrowing aspects of my work among the Germans. I never knew what to do when men wept. It was all so deeply embarrassing and reminded me what a ham-fisted pastor I was. Yet my Germans had written—and Dr. Bell had said—

“Sorry,” said the wretched Mellors, mopping himself up with his filthy handkerchief.

“That’s all right. I’ve shed a tear or two myself recently, as a matter of fact. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.”

To my surprise Mellors seemed to find this idiotic remark comforting. As he accompanied me to the front door he even said: “I’m glad it was you who came and not that pompous prig Babbington-French.”

Not for the first time I wondered how Dr. Ottershaw and I were going to appease Babbington-French after my pastoral sortie into his archdeaconry. Babbington-French was jealous of me and resented my influence over the Bishop. I foresaw trouble ahead, and suddenly for the first time in my career as an archdeacon I experienced a powerful urge to plunge into fresh woods and pastures new.

Having shaken hands with Mellors I remembered to give him my telephone number in case his frail new hope lapsed into a suicidal despair which required a prompt verbal antidote. Then with my mind beginning to seethe with chaotic thoughts about the future, I embarked on my journey to Starbridge.

8

When I arrived back at the palace the chaplain greeted me with the news that Dr. Ottershaw was in a dither; Darrow had finally deigned to reveal his plans for the extension of the Theological College.

“This is my fault,” I said. “Amidst all my domestic troubles I quite forgot to warn the Bishop that Darrow was planning to go on the rampage again.”

“It’s noble of you to take the blame, Archdeacon, but you can hardly be held responsible for Darrow waltzing in, cool as a cucumber, and demanding thousands of pounds in the name of the Holy Spirit. Honestly!” said Hampton scandalised. “You’d think, wouldn’t you, that a famous spiritual director would know better than to behave like a gangster extorting money at gunpoint—oh, and talking of high-handed gangsters, how was Lord Flaxton?”

“Breathing fire but I managed to apply water.”

“And the heretic?”

“He’s no heretic. He’s just been having fun and games with Modernism.” Abandoning Hampton in the hall I entered Dr. Ottershaw’s study and found him poring over one of the large blue diocesan finance files. There was a worried expression on his face and an untouched cup of tea at his elbow. “My dear Bishop,” I said firmly, recognising my duty to cut him free from this worldly thicket into which he had been so brutally dumped, “if you’re trying to work out how to pay for Darrow’s pipe-dream, stop worrying this instant. All calculations can be left to the Board of Finance. It’s quite unnecessary for you to bother yourself with complex arithmetic when you have better things to do.”

“Well, I don’t know that I do have better things to do,” said the Bishop harassed. “What can be more vital than to solve the problem of how we can temporarily expand the Theological College with the minimum of expense? And I really do feel that we can’t ignore the call of the Holy Spirit in these circumstances—”

“Darrow’s not the Holy Spirit. He’s Darrow.”

“Yes, but it’s an inspired idea, isn’t it? It would mean free premises in beautiful and appropriate surroundings for just so long as this huge influx of ordinands lasts—”

“I agree it’s a bold scheme, but it’ll still cost a lot of money and it might well be more practical to lease premises here in the city. An extension in Starrington would cause administrative problems. Darrow won’t like sharing the power.”

“But Darrow says—”

“I know exactly what Darrow says! He thinks he can play the miracle-man and be in two places at once, even though they’re twelve miles apart, but that’s nonsense and you must tell him so.”

“Dear me,” said the poor Bishop, looking more harassed than ever at the prospect of having to be firm with Darrow, “how worrying it all is!”

“Not at all—the situation’s really very simple. Leave the necessary inquiries to me. Then when I present the relevant facts together with my recommendations, all you’ll have to do is pray for guidance and make up your mind.”

The Bishop was just brightening at the thought of prayer when the chaplain looked in. “Excuse me, Bishop, but I’ve got Lord Flaxton on the phone demanding to know what the Archdeacon thought of Mellors.”

The Bishop groaned.

“I’m not back yet,” I said to Hampton, “and the Bishop’s attending a meeting.”

Hampton gave a mock salute and vanished.

“What with Darrow on the one hand,” said the Bishop, “and Lord Flaxton on the other, I’m beginning to wish I were an obscure country curate. Neville, what on earth happened at Flaxton Pauncefoot?”

I delivered a succinct account of Mellors’ plight.

“Poor fellow!” sighed Dr. Ottershaw predictably when I had finished. “Poor,
poor
fellow! It would seem, wouldn’t it, that he hasn’t recovered properly from his wife’s death two years ago … Can we risk Allington Court or should we play safe and send him to the Fordites?”

“I think his most urgent need is to have a complete rest in comfortable surroundings—which means Allington Court, with the Warden tipped off about the need for counselling. I agree it’s a risk because of the drink, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. After all, he’s not a genuine heretic—the sermons were just his way of signalling that he was in acute distress.”

“I’ll ring the Warden tomorrow,” said the Bishop, making a note on his calendar, “and I’ll ring poor Mellors tonight and find out when he can come to see me. But Neville, what do I say to Flaxton when he starts fulminating again that Mellors should be defrocked?”

“All Flaxton’s concerned about is that his tenants should be protected from heresy. If you transfer Mellors—and I really think that for Mellors’ sake a fresh start is essential—then I’m sure Flaxton will stop bawling about defrocking. The real problem here, as I see it, isn’t Flaxton but Hubert Babbington-French.”

The Bishop winced. “I’d already thought of that. I’m afraid there’ll be a terrible tantrum.”

“There’s only one line to take, Bishop, and that’s to put the blame squarely on Flaxton: Tell Babbington-French that Flaxton demanded my presence and that because the situation was potentially scandalous you judged it essential—not merely politic but
essential
—that Flaxton should be humoured.”

“But supposing Hubert wants to know why I didn’t at least consult him?”

“Then you put the blame squarely on me. I advised you that there was no time to waste and I insisted on rushing immediately to Flaxton Pauncefoot.”

“But surely I have a moral duty to take some of the responsibility for the decision!”

“No, Bishop. If you fall out with Babbington-French the worry’s bound to affect your work, and that would be bad for the diocese. Your absolute moral duty here is to appear entirely innocent.”

“And what do I say, in my innocence, when he demands to take over the case?”

“There’ll be no case to take over. As soon as the arrangement’s been made with Allington Court you can present the rescue operation as a
fait accompli
, announce that Mellors is being transferred to my archdeaconry and declare that all Babbington-French has to do is make arrangements for the essential services in Flaxton Pauncefoot until you can appoint a new man. Game, set and match to the Bishop.”

Dr. Ottershaw’s sense of humour finally came to his rescue. “One of the reasons I was so delighted to receive my call to enter the Church,” he said, “was because I thought I’d escape the cut-and-thrust battles—not to mention the sheer Machiavellian skulduggery—of the more worldly professions. Those were the days, of course, when I was truly innocent.” And when I smiled at him he said impulsively: “Whatever would I do without you, Neville? I have a feeling I may not be allowed to keep you much longer—and as I said this morning I’d never stand in your way—but I can’t help wishing selfishly that you’ll stay until my retirement next year.”

The chaplain peeped in again before I could attempt a reply. “The Rector of Upper Starwood’s just phoned to ask what the official policy is on curates who join the Communist Party. What shall I say?”

Dr. Ottershaw groaned again.

“Cheer up, Bishop,” I said. “It’s not so difficult. If Canterbury can have a red dean, why shouldn’t Upper Starwood have a red curate?”

Hampton laughed, and I was relieved to see that Dr. Ottershaw stopped looking so harassed. Taking my leave of them both I abandoned the palace and drove away once more into the Close. It was time to seek help from Darrow.

9

I stopped at the Theological College, but when I discovered the lateness of the hour I was hardly surprised to be told that Darrow had gone home. Nevertheless I was sufficiently disturbed by his absence to wish I had never left the message telling him not to wait for me. This craving to see Darrow was so unprecedented that I found myself pausing to marvel at it, and the moment I paused I found myself engulfed in a terrifying silence. For forty-eight hours, ever since I had left Starrington Manor on my journey to Aidan, I had been running around southern England in a whirlwind of activity. But now I was becalmed. Even my work for the day, that splendid diversion from my troubles, had ceased. I was face to face once more with my appalling problems, and I knew very well I was too debilitated to face them alone.

Arriving home I reluctantly opened the front door and was at once waylaid by Merry in the hall. “Stephen, you’ve got to go back to that hospital tonight, you’ve simply got to! Dido’s in the most awful state—she’s saying you don’t love her any more, and to be quite frank I’m not surprised! How you can be so insensitive absolutely beats me—haven’t you
any
idea of the extent of her suffering?”